Nameless
by russianwinter013
Summary: Set millions of years before the thought of war, the Autobots and Decepticons go through the challenges of "high school".
1. Chapter 1

**Here's my new story! I was hesitant about putting it on here, so consider it a gift!**

* * *

The giant metal building loomed over the town. Its glazed glass windows glinted in the light given off by the sun positioned high in the sky.

Large and intimidating it was, ancient yet new.

Metal spikes and panels rose off of its wide roof, points and sheets serving as fearsome gargoyles that gave off the impression that eradication would come should it be challenged by unwanted visitors.

The building breathed; the movement cloaked the lower creations in cold, intense shadow. The toxic air surrounding it flew through the windows and crevices, staining the monster's thick and cloying hazy shroud with black poison—a substance, however lethal, needed for life on its gargantuan home planet.

Intimidating and imposing it was;

And it was my new school.

* * *

"Are you certain that this is a good idea?"

"She needs the experience. She cannot stay locked in her room forever."

"'Blade, she has been social before—"

"Redwing, talking with the neighbors will not count. Not in this manner of perspective."

"Whiteblade, do you think I do not know this?" Her voice lowered in volume. "I am only worried. What if they mock her? She is not ready for such—"

"She is as ready as she will ever be, and you know it," he growled.

"I am not questioning your manner of judgment, Whiteblade, and you know it."

A moment of silence passed, followed by a low growl. "Redwing, this I know: she is a highly capable being with much potential, with a sense of honor, pride, and strength no young one I know has. She is ready."

She sighed. "Whiteblade, you had better be right." She turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Primus help us if you are not."

* * *

"What's going on over there?" A massive figure approached one standing on the street curb.

"There's a new family moving in. They say their daughter is attending school with us."

"You know anything about her?"

"No, but her parents are well-known." He paused for suspense, optics glittering.

"Who are her parents?"

"Whiteblade and Redwing."

The figure turned to face his companion. "Jackie, you can't be serious! Whiteblade and Redwing are _saboteurs!_ They're wanted everywhere except Kaon."

The other grinned, scarred faceplate glinting in the light. "Bulk, I'm as serious as the hull of my ship."

"Jackie, you don't have a ship."

"Not _yet,_ you mean."

"By the Allspark—"

"—ah, ah, ah." The scarred Cybertronian faced his companion. "I am going to have a ship, no doubt it, and if you so much as question me again I will turn you into a science experiment." He turned and loped down the sidewalk, leaving the other wondering what in the world Jackie was talking about.

"Wait—! Wheeljack! Do not joke like that! That isn't funny!"

The retreating Cybertronian waved his hand, his voice echoing towards the other. "It is to me. And my name is Wheeljack, not Jackie!"

"Sure thing," Bulkhead called, adding beneath his breath, "Jackie."

He should have seen the boulder heading for him.

* * *

The brush moved quickly over the board. Thin, wide, light, dark. Lines created by the simple twist and press of the servo.

Her focus was completely on the work before her. Her optics were glued to the board, her body frozen; the only movement was the gliding sweep of her hand.

A knock on her door startled her. "Honey? It's Redwing."

She froze, brush raised. Paint dripped in a stream on her lap.

"Honey? Are you in there?"

She stood, wings twitching. Why was she here? What did she want? Who did she want? These thoughts ran through her processor as she approached the door, opening it a crack. The tall female Cybertronian stood there; wings raised high and red optics glowing. She was in a bad mood.

_What do you want?_

Redwing scowled, fangs bared. "Have I not told you to cease that processor ache inducing habit? You cannot do that."

_I can do whatever I please._

The air heated, tendrils of steam rising in swirls around her adoptive mother. Inside, she was secretly frightened, as Redwing had never been in such a fiery mood. But this feeling did not show on her faceplate. What showed was an indifferent look of cold, soul-burning awareness and examination, one she knew made Redwing uncomfortable.

However, this trick wouldn't have its desired effect for long. Redwing had a bizarre way of adapting to attacks like this. Her processor would soon reject the direct assault, forming its counter attack that could, if she tried to use her telepathy, leave her in stasis-lock, which was not something she wanted.

"Fine." She heard her own voice, low and raspy from lack of use. "What can I do for you?"

Redwing relaxed slightly, the air cooling. "'Blade and I need to speak to you."

"About?"

"Take a guess." The femme turned, heading down the hall. When she realized the other hadn't followed, Redwing turned. "Come now. Are afraid of us?"

She scowled. "No."

"Then let us not waste time dawdling." She turned and disappeared silently.

She vented heavily. Some day this was going to be.

* * *

**Hope you liked it! Check out the bios of Nightwish, Redwing, and Whiteblade on my profile page; it'll help you understand them better.**

**A/N: Any characters from any Transformers show WILL be out of character. The events that made them the way they are have not happened. Just letting you know.**

**Chapter 2 will be updated soon!**


	2. Chapter 2

Whiteblade paced the room restlessly, anxious and on edge. His optics were shuttered; the path he was making blazed into his processor. His wings flicked the air occasionally, raised high and just as restless as he was.

_Calm down. Nothing will happen. See to it that it will not._

_Oh, but you know something will happen. Something always happen._

He cringed inwardly, teeth bared in a terrifying scowl.

_No, it will not. It will be prevented._

_Will it?_

_Yes._

_Certain is a thing you do not sound. Positive is not so, either._

_I am certain._

_But are you positive?_

He froze, wings batting the air in an uneven, sporadic rhythm.

_You have no answer…are you positive?_

_It is unnecessary—_

_It is highly necessary._

_You are implying unnecessary things, therefore it is unnecessary._

A low growl escaped his vocalizer, echoing in the room with the same ominous effect as the rumbling thunder experienced in a storm—and in this case, not one of water, but one of rage.

_Has as nerve been hit?_

He placed a hand on the wall, claws digging into the polished metal. His processor swam; the loud, insane laughter echoing and increasing his vertigo. He gritted his dentia, fangs extended. No. It would not overwhelm him. _Not now. Not now. Not—_

A knock on the door sounded.

"'Blade?" It was Redwing.

_Wait,_ he ordered between their telepathic link.

_Why?_ There was a moment of silence. _Whiteblade, has it happened again? I told you to—_

_I know you have, Red._

_I have her. Should we wait? I can talk to her alone._

_No. I will have myself collected in a moment._

_When?_

_As soon as you stop speaking._

It was silent, and he took the moment to do as he stated.

_You may enter._

The door opened, and Redwing entered, followed by the young femme in their care. She was nervous and angry, he could tell, by the flicking of her wings and the severe look on her faceplate. Redwing was also irritated, most likely from their argument earlier. She gave off the sense of using her power, a slight hazy cloud outlining her lithe frame.

"Whiteblade." She spoke in a slightly hesitant voice. "You are ready?"

He stood straight, wings at half-mast.

"Yes."

* * *

She was confused. Why was she frozen? What was she doing? She watched as Redwing stood motionless, her wings as still as she was. Did she have telepathic abilities and was speaking with someone? No, she'd be able to—

"Come." Redwing stood in the doorway facing her, her red gaze burning in the dark. She felt the femme's frustration and quickly followed.

The room was large, much more spacious than her own. There were two windows, two berths—one for recharge and one for longing—as well as shelves full of digitized files and reading material. Near one of the windows stood Whiteblade. The cold light reflecting off his armor made him give off a ghostly, otherworldly glow. There was something hidden deep within his normally unreadable aura, a black sense of dark anger and the longing for destruction.

It would be one of the only things that terrified her.

"You are nervous and frightened." He was facing her now, his optics glowing, filled with dark secrets. "You are uncertain and fearful of what you think Redwing and I might do?"

The young femme scowled. "No. What is it that you want?"

"So quick to intrude." Whiteblade's voice deepened. Redwing straightened as if coming to attention, her wings twitching. He faced her, nodding. "Are you prepared?"

Redwing nodded, despite her giving off the feeling of being wary. "Yes." She looked to the femme, motioning to the lounge berth. "Sit."

She did as told, keeping her eye on Whiteblade. "Why am I here?"

"We wish to talk to you," Redwing stated.

She shifted in her seat. "About?"

"You are going to enrolled in a school."

Her optics narrowed, blazing bright. "I am perfectly fine here. You have taught me well and I am capable of learning on my own."

Redwing nodded. "We know."

"We feel you need to be more social," Whiteblade interjected.

"I talk to the neighbors—"

"—it will not count," Whiteblade stated. "Conversing with eight-thousand year-olds is not the same as doing so with ones of your own age."

"I do not want to speak with the ones of my own age," she snapped, glaring furiously. I do not like them and they will not like me.

"Why do you not favor them?" Redwing questioned. "You have never attempted to befriend them."

Her scowl deepened, but she said nothing, and didn't meet her adoptive parents' eyes.

Redwing and Whiteblade looked at each other.

_She feels she will not 'fit in', as the young call it._

_We should have let her out earlier._

_She was not ready, not after what occurred at the orphanage._

Redwing's wings twitched. _If we had let her out, she would have had something to keep her mind off of what happened._

_They would not accept her. Not if they knew._

_You would know, would you not?_

The link severed. Redwing blinked in surprise. Whiteblade had his optics shuttered, a scowl on his faceplate, with his fangs extended. She knew she had gone too far, yet couldn't restrain herself. Whiteblade's past was worse than hers, and he was still attempting to keep his resolve, to try and forget the terrible crimes he did.

"Redwing?" The young femme stared at her, her white optics glowing.

"Yes, young one?" She led her out of the room, silently hoping Whiteblade would calm down before he snapped.

"I do not want to go." Her wings were lowered, pointed in a downward V.

"I know, little one. We are trying to make your life better."

"My life is fine, Redwing. I am fine here with you."

"Young one, you cannot stay in your room forever. You have to go out, see the world, and make more friends. You will have a better life this way."

"I like life this way. It is better."

"You will never get through life by just painting. You need to associate with others. It will help you in life." When the young femme did not reply, she bent down to cup her face in her hands. "Little one, I know this is not a topic you favor. But Whiteblade and I cannot teach you everything. This school can—their academic and improving rates are extraordinarily high."

She vented. "Where is this school?"

"It is a high school in Iacon, nearly point five joors from here."

"Do you know anyone who attended this 'Iacon High'?"

"A few."

She looked up. "Where are they now?"

Redwing vented out slowly. "I do not know."

"What happened to them?"

Her gaze lowered. "I do not know."

* * *

**Yes, I know my younger OC seems...so young, but she will show how old she is soon. Her POV is coming, next chapter!**

**Read and review! Tell me if anything doesn't make sense, or if anything concerns you.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3!**

**WHY DOESN'T ANYONE LIKE THIS?!**

* * *

Now you know my story. My adoptive parents are saboteurs, I spend my days locked in my room painting, and I have no friends. I'm enrolled in a school where no one will accept me.

The roar of two engines sounded, tearing my attention from the school. Two vehicles, one a large green SUV and the other a white, red, and green Cybertronian car, raced around the corner. Tires squealing, they came to a stop near me, transforming.

The green SUV turned into a massive male Cybertronian of medium height, although he was still taller than me. His companion was leaner, with a charred paint job, a scarred faceplate, and evil looking ice blue optics. He was taller than the green one, so I had to strain to look up at him. My neck and body protested at the movement, weak and sore from prolonged lack of movement, and I swayed, nearly collapsing. The green one caught me, steadying me on my pedes.

"Are you okay?" His voice was a rumbling tenor, making my body shudder.

I nodded, struggling to even my ventilations. Now was not the time. "Yes, thank you."

His optics widened at my voice, and he glanced at his companion as if in fright.

"You're the new kid, right?" the charred white one asked, his voice slightly deeper than the other's.

"Obviously." I rolled my shoulders. "Who are you?"

"I'm Bulkhead, and this is Wheeljack," the green one said, motioning to the other.

"Why did you help me? You know nothing about me."

"All the more reason to be friendlier," Wheeljack said, grinning somewhat maniacally.

"Don't mind him; he's a few gears short in the processor."

"Didn't I say the same thing about you?"

"I don't know; did you, Jackie?" Bulkhead asked, a taunting tone creeping into his voice.

At this, Wheeljack turned; a dangerous look blazed in his optics, which had darkened a few shades. I felt a dark urge roll off of him, similar to Whiteblade when he had acted strangely the other night; the longing for destruction, or in this case, the longing to beat Bulkhead's faceplate in so hard he wouldn't remember his name.

I rolled my optics and turned away, hading down the sidewalk to find another way into the building. Their voices echoed towards me:

Bulkhead: "Look what you did!"

Wheeljack: "What _**I**_ did? Ha! It was _your_ fault!"

"_My fault?_ How is this _my_ fault?"

"You just _had_ to call me Jackie, didn't you?"

"It's not my fault you hate the nickname!"

"Actually, it is."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is!"

"No, it isn't!"

There came an echoing bang and a shout of pain. I glanced over my shoulder to see Bulkhead on the ground and Wheeljack standing over him, glaring daggers so fierce and sharp I could feel them from here. He felt my gaze on him and looked up. We stared at each other—me with confusion and anxiety, and him with rage and something I couldn't quite figure out.

Then, out of the blue, he grinned.

A _cheerful_ grin.

Primus, he really was insane.

* * *

The bell rang.

_Scrap._ I threw my locker shut, growling in frustration as I glanced at the map to find my next class while muttering angrily to myself.

"Stupid locker; of course it wants to break down on the first day…"

The classroom door squeaked as I opened it. Everyone turned to look and I was shocked at the varieties. There were Praxians, Kaonites, Iaconians—everything, including hybrids.

"You are late." The teacher spoke in a quiet, deep voice. He was a short Praxian, even shorter if imagined without doorwings.

As if it wasn't obvious. "I know. I had locker troubles."

"Any self-respecting Cybertronian would store their necessities in their subspace."

"I apologize if I do not live up to your standards." My optics narrowed.

His optics narrowed. "Who are you?"

"Nightwish."

"Your parents?"

"Whiteblade and Redwing."

Murmurs filled the room, and even the teacher looked uncomfortable at the mention of my parents. I groaned silently. Sure, they were terrifying, were still some of the most wanted beings to walk the face of Cybertron, and had immeasurable amounts of power, but they had _changed._ They weren't the same.

I scowled, my wings rising. I had the urge to slam the teacher helm-first into the wall, leave him there to rot, and leave this wretched place forever. The corner of my mouthplates curved into a slight grin; the temptation grew stronger.

But then, a sudden wave of nausea washed over me. I swayed slightly, black spots darting in my vision. Their voices blurred; the world became a hazy fog. I could hear my spark beating in my audio receptors, loud and pounding. Heat overcame me; I couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe…couldn't…

A hand was on my servo, and I was yanked down. My vertigo increased, and then it vanished suddenly, sending the world crashing back. I turned to see who had moved me.

It was a male Praxian, one with a white, blue, and red paint job. His doorwings were at uneven heights, one flicking the air in sporadic movements. His optics were startlingly bright and blue, so light they were nearly white. His faceplate profile was sharp, face just about outlined clearly. His mouthplates were stretched in a lazy, not-at-all forced grin, and were moving. Why were they…?

"Hello?"

I blinked, shaking my helm. The near-blackout was still affecting me; it'd take me a while to readjust my audio receptors—I couldn't even hear next to me.

"Are you okay?" A servo waved itself in my face, so close, too close, _too_ close…

"Yes, I am fine." I fixed my gaze on the Praxian, who wasn't grinning anymore but still had traces of it, as well as a hint of concern. "Who are you?"

"Smokescreen. And you are…?"

I was grateful he didn't pin me as the daughter of Whiteblade and Redwing. "My name is Nightwish."

Smokescreen nodded so many times he made me dizzy looking at him. "Nightwish. Nice." He tilted his helm. "It suits you. Especially with your paint job—purple, black, a hint of gray—blended just right."

_Okay, then_. "Are you an artist?"

He shrugged. "You could say that, although I do some works in my spare time. I'm a mechanic, but I don't have near as much knowledge as some—"

"Smokescreen, is there something you'd like to share with the class?" The teacher was glaring at us and I noticed Smokescreen's bent doorwing jerk as he looked up.

"No, sir."

"Then I suggest you pay attention for your quiz tomorrow."

Groans of irritation filled the classroom.

I might just like this school.

At least, a little.

* * *

My gaze slid across the room. So many Cybertronians, so many. Where was I going to—?

"Nightwish!"

I turned to see Smokescreen heading towards me, dodging the crowds. His doorwings were at their right height, although his bent wing still twitched.

"Are you looking for a seat? You can sit with us."

"With who?"

"Them." He motioned to a table filled with Cybertronians.

"Space is limited. I do not think I should—!"

"That's a load of scrap." The Praxian grabbed my servo and pulled me towards the table, much to my dislike.

"Hey, guys! Look what I brought!" As if I were a trained Scraplet on show at the Iacon National Fair.

I recognized a few faces: Wheeljack, Bulkhead, and a Praxian that was in a few of my classes who never spoke and had convinced me that he is mute.

"Hey, hey, look who came back," Bulkhead laughed. Next to him, Wheeljack was grinning, the same maniacal one I had seen earlier. When he caught my gaze, his optics shone brighter, nearly turning white. Bulkhead noticed this and elbowed him, making him scowl.

"I did not 'come back'. He invited me." I motioned to Smokescreen, who grinned hugely.

"Where did ya meet 'im?" a visored male asked, his thick accent showing that he was most likely from Polyhex. "Did he say how good ya paint job was?"

I looked to Smokescreen, but he had his gaze fixed on something else, his wings raised high.

"Yes, he did. I…" The room lurched and a wave of vertigo washed over me. I felt my body sway and heard the others' concern, but it was like I was outside of my body, my mind. I couldn't breathe, couldn't _breathe…_

_"Nightwish!"_

My optics jerked open. Smokescreen stood over me, Bulkhead and Wheeljack flanking him. Why was I…?

_Scrap._ I tried to sit up, but pain laced throughout my body, making me clench my dentia to nullify it. "What…happened?"

"You tell us." Smokescreen crossed his servos. "You were talking and then you just _froze."_

"Ya looked like Prowl," the Polyhexian added, motioning to the mute Praxian, who didn't react.

"I do not… _who—"_ My head exploded in pain and it was all I could do to not scream.

"Ratchet!" Smokescreen roared, making my head pound even more.

A Cybertronian of medium height appeared. He was white and red, with blade-like optics ridges and a look on his faceplate so severe he rivaled my neighbors—who were elders—when they were angry.

"I'm here; no reason to snap at me." His voice was gravelly and did nothing to improve the massive processor ache I had.

He looked down at me, his body blocking the bright lights above him. "I've never seen such a bad backlash syndrome. Her mind is fighting with itself, locked in an endless battle to stay strong."

"Enough with the lecture, Ratch," Smokescreen said. "What's wrong with her?"

"That is what I'm not so sure about." Ratchet looked at me. "How long have you had it?"

I felt my mouth move, but couldn't form words. It was too exhausting to move. I just wanted to sleep, just _sleep…_

_"She's zoning out again, Ratchet."_

_"I know."_

Cold raced throughout my body, and then it turned into heat, restarting my systems. My chest constricted and I gasped, struggling to breathe.

"She can't breathe!"

"I know, Smokescreen! Stop rushing me." I could see the young medic's outline heading over to a monitor. "Her vitals are stabilizing. She's healing well enough on her own. It's best not for me to interfere."

"Nightwish."

I looked over to see Smokescreen, kneeling by my side. His optics had darkened a few shades, and I could tell by the look on his faceplate that he was concerned.

"What happened?" His voice was low; it was clear he didn't want the others to hear.

"I—" The room tilted, although I was motionless. It was impossible to speak.

"Take it easy." There was nothing he could do, and we both knew it. When I was settled, he continued. "I've seen some backlash cases." He motioned to the mute Praxian, who was standing by the window of the room. "See Prowl over there? He has some bad backlash. But he never had one as bad as yours until he was vorns into it." His optics flicked back to me. "What happened to you?"

I shook my helm. "You wouldn't want to know."

Smokescreen's wings twitched. "But I do. How do you think we felt when we first met Prowl? What—?"

"I told you!" I shot up from the berth, ignoring the wave of dizziness. "I can't tell you! I just can't!"

The Praxian froze, his faceplate impassive, and rose just as Ratchet came over.

"Smokescreen, what's wrong? Where are you going?"

"Someplace that isn't here, Ratch. I need to get out."

"Why?"

Smokescreen looked at the medic-in-training with a glare that said, _Primus, who died and made you leader?_ "Just out, Ratchet. I need to…" He trailed off, staring at something outside of the room. He was nervous, I could tell, by the flicking of his wings and the tensing of his body.

"Smokescreen, what is it?" The medic moved over to the door, freezing in his tracks when he saw whatever the Praxian saw. "Oh, Primus." He whipped around, his faceplate showing that he was irritated and nervous. "Nightwish, stay here. I mean— _do **not** leave_. Prowl, you're with me."

The Praxian appeared next to me, as silent as a ghost. He was tall, I noticed, taller than Smokescreen, and had tall doorwings that looked about as sharp Whiteblade's swords. He moved past me, faceplate impassive.

"What will _he_ do?" I said to Bulkhead.

"You've never seen him deal with problems before," Bulkhead responded. "He's a maestro."

"But he can't talk."

Bulkhead frowned. "I'm sure he can. He just never does."

"So how will he—?"

"Do you hear that?" Wheeljack came to attention, his optics dark and cast over.

We shook our helms, wondering what he was getting at.

"Exactly," he hissed. _"Nothing."_ He then grinned, his optics brightening. "Let's go check it out." He then vanished through the door.

* * *

**PLZ, SOMETHING! i'M DYIN' HERE, PEOPLE! Losing inspiration...**


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm starting to not like this story...**

* * *

It was obvious where everyone was. They could follow the sounds of fighting.

"Must be a good one," Wheeljack commented. "That's one heck of a crowd."

"Bet you it's Red," Bulkhead added, holding out his servo. Wheeljack eyed it, his signature grin appearing.

"You're on." They shook firmly, heading towards the crowd.

Bulkhead glanced over his shoulder at Nightwish. She was moving slower than normal, her wings batting the air the way Prowl's did whenever he was unnerved. She seemed to tracking her every move, placing every pede in a planned and marked location. Despite her spell earlier, the one thing that worried him were her optics. They were as dark as night, piercing and cold. Rage clouded her gaze, a terrifying darkness that pierced his soul. But why was she like this, why was she so _enraged?_

The noises grew louder—mainly shouts of excitement and encouragement. They approached cautiously, Bulkhead standing protectively in front of Nightwish. Mobs watching fights at their school tended to become aggressive and violent, and he did not desire dealing with a huge crowd of fight-fueled, crazy Cybertronians.

"They will not harm me." Nightwish's strange voice startled him, and he noticed that she had moved in front of him. "Not while they fear my parents." She moved closer to the crowd.

"Nightwish, I don't think that's wise," Wheeljack growled, his optics flashing.

She spun around. "And why would I take advice from _you?"_

He narrowed his optics, glaring at her. She glared back just as intensely. Bulkhead stepped in between the two, not wanting another fight.

"We should—"

"Break it up!"

They all jumped at the voice, but then soon realized it wasn't addressing them. Rather, it was coming from inside the crowd.

"No point in dawdling," Wheeljack said, his mood changing abruptly. "Come on."

They followed, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the shouts of protest. When they could finally see what was going on, they froze.

Two Cybertronians faced each other in the middle of the circle. One was taller than the other, with thin and long blade-like arms. Most of his faceplate was marred by a gruesome collection of scars, and he had a black and purple paint job. The other was shorter, with bull-like horns and a blinding red paint job. The tall one showed no emotion, while the other was scowling and taunting.

"Come on, now, you useless pile of scrap metal!" he growled. "Show me what you got!"

The Kaonite said nothing, continuing to watch.

"He's insane," Bulkhead whispered to no one in particular. "Who in their right mind would a fight with _Soundwave?"_

"Cliff's like tha'." A Polyhexian appeared next to them. "'Bout as nuts as they come. He's crazier than mah sire on high-grade."

"I can say the same for Wheeljack," Nightwish muttered.

"You're the new kid, right?" the Polyhexian asked, facing her. She nodded, her gaze fixed on the two.

"Tell me Soundwave's story." Her voice quiet as she kept her gaze on the near-fight.

"There's nothing _**to**_ tell. He's an insane 'bot with anger management problems."

While this was happening, everyone else was watching the almost-fight. Soundwave was still watching, motionless, tracking his opponent's moves. Cliffjumper was snapping at him, just about begging him for a fight. But there was one thing he didn't know.

Soundwave was planning his attack. Little did Cliffjumper know, but his movements revealed his every strength and weakness. He was signing up for his own funeral.

_Analyzing… weaknesses detected. Multiple injuries in right servo; cause of this is numerous accidents and fights. Opponent prone to anger; subject is easily insulted. Threat level: 2._

Cliff slowed as the Kaonite finally moved. A grin appeared on his face, the light glinting off of his red armor.

"Took you that long to collect your strength? You must be weaker than I thought!"

He said nothing, his claws extending. Gasps of shock sounded: _He's going to fight!_

Cliffjumper hardly seemed bothered. He got into a stance, baring his dentia in an attempt to be menacing. "Go on, hit me! I dare you!"

_Talking is a sign of weakness and attempt at distraction. Scanning… target to left._

The Kaonite whipped around, dodging an attack from a massive male Polyhexian. He stared in shock at the Kaonite, confusion clear on his faceplate. Soundwave stared back, processor in hyperspeed as it analyzed the situation.

A slight breeze appeared nearby, and he stepped sideways. The Polyhexian fell back with a loud thud, shouting a string of expletives as the invisible opponent slammed into him.

Cliffjumper growled, his anger rising. "You hard-helmed glitch-heads! Can't you do anything right?"

Soundwave turned. _"Can't you do anything right?"_

"He's a technopath and a telepath," Bulkhead muttered to Nightwish, "His drives can record things around him and he can play them back. Scares the mess out of some folks and does nothing to dull the fact that he's a downright—"

"Look!"

The crowd turned and parted. A tall mech was making his way through. The light glinted off of his silver armor. He walked with a hint of purposeful menace.

"Get out of his way." Murmurs filled the area, and the crowd backed away from the approaching figure.

"If it isn't Cliffjumper." The silver mech's voice was terrifyingly deep and cold. "I see you haven't changed your ways."

"Like I would." The red mech faced the other, glaring at him despite the fact that he was many feet taller.

The silver mech ignored him, facing Soundwave. "You have lowered my expectations for you. You would risk everything to get in an inconsequential dispute? Have you—?" He cut off, something else catching his attention. He leaned down and picked up an object. His optics—a deep, dark blue color—narrowed as he faced Cliffjumper once more, who now had the nerve to look terrified. He did nothing, surprisingly, as he handed the object to Soundwave, who remained silent and impassive.

_"Knock Out!"_ the silver mech roared, startling everyone.

A red and black mech appeared out of nowhere. A maniacal grin more unsettling that Wheeljack's was on his faceplate, and his strange, piercing red and black optics held even more insanity than his grin.

"Yes?" He looked up at the huge silver mech, his voice deep, and his optics blazing.

"Repair Soundwave's visor, would you?" He handed the object to the other. Knock Out took it, his long digits tracing it. "Also, send for Dreadwing. Tell him there's been an"—he looked to Cliffjumper—"unfortunate misunderstanding."

Knock Out nodded, vanishing just as silently as he had appeared.

The silver mech addressed the crowd. "Nothing has happened here, and you will not speak of this. Leave." He stood motionless, waiting.

The crowd dispersed, but a voice sounded:

"Who do you think you are?"

"What—? That's Nightwish!" Bulkhead hissed to Wheeljack. "How did she—?"

"Quiet!" Wheeljack stared, his optics narrowed. "Let her handle this."

The silver mech froze, staring at the tall, winged femme before him. His optics narrowed as he tilted his helm. "Who are you?"

"My designation is Nightwish."

"You are new here?"

"Clearly." She crossed her servos. "Who are you?"

"Megatronus." He held out his servo.

Nightwish said nothing, the look on her faceplate showing that she didn't care a bit. "Stop."

"Demanding, I see." The mech did as told, his optics glowing as he brushed imaginary dirt off of his armor. "Who are you here with?"

"Us." Wheeljack pulled Bulkhead along with him, much to his protest.

Megatronus's optics blazed and they all noticed them flash red, as well as the dark rage that burned in their depths. Wheeljack and Megatronus stared at each other, tension building in the air.

"Megatronus."

The enormous silver mech turned. Another tall mech was making his way towards them. As he came closer, the light reflected off of his red and blue armor. His optics were blue and faintly glowing, holding the suffering of one who lost something dear to them and the alert seriousness of a wise man.

"Orion." Megatronus grinned, his rage dimming to a small roar. "What brings you here?"

"You know very well what does." Orion's voice was quiet and calm. "Did you think I would not know what happened?"

"I have a way of keeping things hidden, as you are no doubt aware."

Orion nodded, crossing his servos. His optics flicked to Nightwish. "Hello. Who are you?"

"I—" She swayed and Bulkhead steadied her. Her optics fluttered shut.

"Orion, this is Nightwish. Nightwish, Orion Pax. It's her first day here."

"I see." The tall mech kept his gaze fixed on her. He was staring as if examining her for faults and triumphs. He was, most likely, judging by the flickering of his own optics. It was as if a scan was being run, one that would revel secrets should they be detected.

"Orion, I'm sorry to cut you short," Bulkhead interjected, "But we should be going. Ratchet needs to take another look at Nightwish." She murmured something, and he shook his helm. "No, you're not. Stop trying to tell yourself you are."

Wheeljack put a servo on his friend's shoulder. "Come on. Ratchet will blow a fuse if we're late. See you later, Pax."

* * *

_"Unbelievable,_ the nerve of some 'bots. All crowded in one area as if they were Predacons at a mass hunt—"

"Uh, Ratchet—"

"I mean, how can they stand seeing the living daylights beaten out of a colleague? Who would enjoy such a sport?"

"Ratch—"

"—if it were _me_ in charge, I would go out there myself and knock some sense into them. Wait, I'm contradicting myself, aren't I? I hate it when—"

"Oh, for Primus' sake," Wheeljack muttered, rising from his seat. "Ratchet!"

_"What?!"_ The young medic whipped around, optics blazing.

"It isn't your fault," Bulkhead stated. Ratchet turned on him, and he flinched.

"Of course it isn't my fault! It's _yours!"_

"What—?"

"You _had_ to go to the fight. You _had_ to drag Nightwish along with you. You just _had_ to let her confront one of the most powerful beings in the school!"

"Ratchet." Nightwish stirred, trying to force herself up. "It isn't their fault."

"Don't try to be on their side," the medic spat. "They—"

"You should calm down, Ratchet. Yelling isn't good for the vocalizer." A voice sounded from the doorway. It was Orion, who had the door shut behind him.

Ratchet scowled, but ceased ranting, instead taking up the task of glaring furiously at Wheeljack and Bulkhead.

Orion entered the medical bay, sweeping his gaze around the room. His steps were carefully placed and he moved with a gentle easiness and casualness. He gave off the air of someone who would have a place of great power in their future.

"Shouldn't you be in military history and training?" Bulkhead questioned.

Orion shrugged. "I am, but I have missed it before. Dyerblack will not mind." He looked around the room once more. "Where is Redstorm?"

"He isn't here today, but he knows I can handle the med-bay on my own." Ratchet ran a servo over his faceplate. "You should try to deal with these nutjob teachers. They've been trying to force me to take their classes when I've already passed their exams." His scowl resurfaced and he turned away, muttering beneath his breath about something involving teachers and incineration.

"How long have you been here?" Orion addressed Nightwish.

She looked up, her wings flicking. "I moved here a few solar cycles ago, with my… parents."

"Do you mind telling me who they are?" Orion sensed her uneasiness about her parents. "You don't have to if you don't want to. I am only curious."

"Redwing and Whiteblade."

Orion nodded, taking a hesitant step towards her. Nightwish tensed, her wings rising and flicking the air. Her digits curled into claws; her optics began to glow.

"Easy there." Ratchet put a servo on the femme's shoulder. "We don't want you having another backlash. Orion will not the harm you."

She nodded, venting heavily. _I know._

Bulkhead and Wheeljack froze, glancing at each other. Ratchet turned, his optics narrow. Orion seemed unfazed. "You have telepathy?"

Before she could answer, the door opened. Prowl entered, followed by Smokescreen, a Polyhexian, and a black and yellow Praxian.

"Where you have been?" Bulkhead asked, crossing her servos.

"Who made you Ratchet?" Smokescreen growled, throwing himself in a chair and closing his optics.

"What crawled up _your_ tailpipe and died?" Wheeljack muttered. Smokescreen opened his optics, which blazed white, and began to say something, but Orion cut him off.

"Just leave it, you two. You're always acting like glitch-heads."

"Oh, and I'm _sure_ that's a compliment coming from Mr. Perfect!" Smokescreen hissed.

Orion was taken aback. "What—? I'm sure as pit _not_ Mr. Perfect! What are you talking about?"

Smokescreen scowled, his doorwings rising as he stood. "Sure, you're not! Good grades, older brother that's as scary as Primus knows what? All the femmes in the school, and you appeal to _this_ one!" He motioned to Nightwish.

_And what is **that** supposed to mean?_ She came to attention, her optics narrow and blazing.

"What do you _think_ it means?" He glared at her, armor flared as he began to approach him. But before she could answer, Prowl was suddenly in between them.

_What do you think you are doing? Get out of my way,_ Nightwish snarled.

_No._ The Praxian's voice was strange, deep, calm, and echoing. _You will calm down._

_Why would I take orders from you?_

_I am not giving orders. It is a suggestion from which you will highly benefit._

_Benefit in your eyes or in mine?_

"Benefit in yours," the visored Polyhexian said. "Prowl's not a nice guy when he's annoyed. Trust meh, it ain't pretty. Ah should know."

"Enough, Jazz," Ratchet snapped. "Prowl, she's obviously not going to listen to you. She's too stubborn to do so."

"Stubborn?" Nightwish abandoned her telepathy, turning on the medic. "I am not stubborn!"

"Yes, you are," they said.

She scowled, but Prowl added, _I agree. You are quite stubborn, more so than myself._

Nightwish glared at him, snarling. "Can you not use your own voice?"

"No, he can't," Ratchet snapped. "His own backlash damaged his vocalizer."

"Oh." Nightwish's wings lowered. "I did not know."

"How could you?" Smokescreen muttered. Prowl faced him, shaking his helm. Surprisingly, the other Praxian backed down, sinking back in his chair and shuttering his optics.

Nightwish vented heavily. Some day this was turning to be.

* * *

**You guys must hate this. Over 2,000 views, yet no favorites, follows, or reviews. What am I doing wrong?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5. Nothing else to say, really, so...enjoy!**

* * *

The following days, Smokescreen said nothing to me. He had been in a bad mood—though the cause of this was unknown—and I had acted in a way that had just about asked for someone to snap at me.

Someone ran into me. I scowled and moved back, my wings rising. Who had—?

A tall mech glared down at me. His optics were completely red, and he was scowling, exposing fang-like dentia. He towered over me, and his black and red armor glinted in the light.

"Sorry." He looked so enraged over someone running into him.

He growled at me, a full on Predacon noise. I was taken aback and stared as he moved around me, disappearing down the hall.

"A lucky one, you are."

I turned. The black and yellow Praxian I had seen earlier in Ratchet's lab stood there, leaning against the lockers.

"What do you mean?"

"That was Redheath. He's one of the toughest kids here, pure-blooded Predacon. Normally he'd crush the nearest person to scrap metal if they so much as looked at him, but he did noting to you." He moved closer to me, holding out his servo. "I'm Bumblebee. You're Nightwish, aren't you?"

I nodded, shaking his servo. "You were in the medical-bay when Ratchet was fixing me."

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm usually in there. He says he doesn't need an assistant, but f he doesn't have one he won't recharge for solar cycles." He looked at me. "Where is you next class?"

I looked at the map and then at the chronometer on the wall. In all the confusion, I had missed three of my six classes. "I think I am supposed to be in Chronostream's class."

Bumblebee grinned. "You'll love her. She's not a thing like Dyerblack or Jetstream. I have her next." He held out a servo. "Walk you to class?"

* * *

"So what happened between you and Smokescreen?"

I shivered, raising my wings against the wind. "What do you mean?"

Bumblebee looked down at me, his blue optics glowing slightly. "When you woke, he was speaking to you and you just snapped at him. I don't mean to be rude, but Smokescreen is one of my friends and I don't take too kindly to others insulting him."

I froze. **_I_** had insulted **_him?_** He was the one who kept prying even though I told him to stop.

"Nightwish?"

I kept my mouth shut. The world blurred and heat overcame me. Why had I been such a glitch-head? I couldn't have any friends. They'd never accept me, even if they knew my past.

"Nightwish, are you okay?"

I couldn't breathe. My chest was tight, _too_ tight. There was pressure in my helm pounding, pounding, pounding. Make it stop…too _loud.._

"Nightwish!"

_"What?!"_ I threw my hands in the air. "What do you want from me?"

"I don't want anything, Nightwish." I could see his outline heading towards me. "Just calm down."

_"Calm down?"_ I bared my dentia in a feral grin. "Why should I?"

"Because you would not want to anger me."

* * *

"'Blade, she is near." Redwing paced the room.

"I know." He put a servo her shoulder. "Calm down. I will go get her."

"Do not be harsh with her, Whiteblade. She could have made a friend or two and spent some time with them."

Whiteblade froze, his black tipped wings raised high. "Then I will be harsh with whoever spent so much time with our daughter."

Redwing stood and watched as the tall, ghost-like mech vanished down the street.

_Please do not do anything rash. We are in too much trouble as it is._

* * *

He froze, taking in the extremely tall mech behind Nightwish. He had a white paint job that seemed to make him glow. He had large, tall wings that were tipped with black. Despite his altogether terrifying appearance, that wasn't what terrified Bumblebee.

It was his optics. They were completely red, what fury would look like in person. At the moment, the mech looked downright furious.

Nightwish whipped around, enraged. But that look soon vanished when she saw who was there.

"Whiteblade." Her voice slightly shaky. "What are you doing here?"

"I am looking for you." His voice was deep and emotionless. It pierced Bumblebee's soul.

"I was on my way home. Bumblebee was walking me." Her wings were twitching. Was she scared of her father?

"I am aware of that." The mech fixed his crimson optics on Bumblebee, who shifted nervously.

"Sir, I didn't mean to worry you. The time—" He cut off as the mech raised a servo.

"Time is none of your concern. You will not be associating with my daughter anymore. Do you understand me?" He was dangerously close, his optics narrow. He was scowling, and Bumblebee could see his razor sharp fangs.

"Whiteblade, do not blame him. It was my fault," Nightwish explained, flinching slightly when he turned on her.

"I will not hear another word from you," he hissed. "Redwing and I were worried sick."

"I did not mean—"

"Not another word." Whiteblade urged her down the walkway, glaring at Bumblebee over his shoulder as they disappeared into the night.

* * *

"I'm such a glitch-head!"

"Calm down, 'Bee. It isn't—"

"Don't you dare finish that." The black and yellow mech whipped around. His chassis was trembling; the image of Nightwish's father was still fresh in his mind. "It _is_ my fault. I shouldn't have even talked to her."

"What if Redheath had busted her up?" Jazz demanded, visor blazing. "Would ya jus' sit back idly an' watch?"

"No. Do I look like I would?" The Praxian glared.

"Jus' sayin'. Ya most likely would've even if ya hadn't meant ta."

"Where did you guys even go?" Bulkhead demanded. "From the sound of it, you were out late."

The Praxian's doorwings shot up and he shook his helm. "We weren't. It was a few joors after school, but—"

"A few _joors?_ That's well past half day!"

"We just sat and talked, okay?" Bumblebee sighed. "If I could take it all back I would. Nothing but trouble has happened since she came. I think it'd be best to just leave her alone."

* * *

"What were you _thinking?"_

"She was not, as you can clearly see."

"I—"

"You were out joors after school! Do you know how worried we were?"

"I just—"

"You had me worried to malfunction!"

"I did not mean—"

"—and the nerve of that mech!" Redwing spat. "Taking my daughter on some _joyride!"_

"It wasn't a joyride!" Nightwish growled. "We took a walk, for Primus' sake!"

"Alone," Whiteblade snarled, "With no mere _thought_ of contacting us."

Nightwish's wings lowered. "I meant to, but—"

"_Meaning to_ is not the same as _doing."_ Whiteblade's voice was dangerously low.

"Will you please listen?" the young femme pleaded. "You do not understand!"

Whiteblade hissed. "How do we not 'understand'? You—" He cut off as Redwing raised a servo. She looked intently at Nightwish.

"Go on."

Nightwish vented somewhat shakily. "I could only go to three of my six classes."

"What is the cause of this?" Whiteblade snapped.

"Calm yourself." Redwing stood, glaring at Whiteblade. She approached Nightwish, taking her face in her hands. The younger femme scowled, trying to move away.

"Redwing, I am fine," she hissed, her wings twitching.

"No, you are not." The former saboteur stepped back, red optics narrow. "It happened again?"

Nightwish nodded. "Twice, and nearly before Whiteblade found me."

"Why did you not tell us?"

She scowled, her wings rising. "I was too busy being yelled at."

"I thought it had been outgrown." Redwing looked to Whiteblade, who approached silently, concern slightly replacing his rage.

"There was a medic there, one who goes to the school." Nightwish shifted as if in discomfort. "He knew enough to keep me calm; one of his friends has backlash, but worse than mine. After that, there was a fight Wheeljack dragged me to see and that was when I met Megatronus and his brother Orion Pax. Then Smokescreen was angry, I angered him further and I met Bumblebee."

Redwing nodded. "Whiteblade and I have to speak alone. Rest, Nightwish. We will come for you later."

* * *

**Worrying parents who are wanted all over the world and are very dangerous and overprotective isn't such a good thing.**

**R&R, pleaze! PM/review with any questions/concerns/suggestions!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, Chapter 6.**

* * *

A knock on my door tore me from my thin recharge. I turned over on my side, my wings tucked in. My helm was pounding, a pain-inducing thud.

"Nightwish?" An all too familiar voice spoke.

I vented. What did she want _now—_ to yell at me some more?

"Nightwish, I am coming in." The door creaked, signaling my visitor's entrance. The noise only made my helm pound even more, and before I could help myself a groan of pain escaped me. I shuttered my optics, turning away from the new source of light. The berth dipped slightly as someone sat on it. A warm, almost too hot servo pressed gently against my own.

"I know you are not that deep in recharge, sweetspark." The servo traced lightly against my faceplate. "Will you speak to me?"

I vented quietly, turning over to see a worried Redwing. _Yes?_ Honestly, I was surprised I had the strength to muster my telepathy.

"How are you feeling? I know that Whiteblade and I came off rather harsh earlier, but we were only worried. Any parent would be." Her wings lowered into a submissive position, showing that she was not angry in the slightest…only concerned.

_How do you **think** I feel?_ I realized how harsh I sounded, cringing as pain stabbed through my processor.

"Not as bad as I feel," the femme murmured. "I overreacted, did I not?"

_It was pretty obvious._ I grit my dentia, a slight tremor shaking my chassis as a wave of cold washed over me. Redwing noticed, her wings twitching in concern.

"Are you cold?" She did not wait for my answer as her optics blazed and unnatural heat radiated from her frame. "Is that satisfactory?"

I did not want to admit it, but it actually felt good. The crimson femme sensed this and put a servo on my back, just below my wings, rubbing in small circles reassuringly. Normally I would have snapped and moved away, but I was just so _cold…_

"Nightwish."

My optics snapped open. When had I closed them? Redwing was still there, and now her worry and fear showed on her faceplate.

_Yes?_ My telepathic voice was faint and weak even to my audio receptors. Using the ability made pain stab its way through my processor, and I grit my dentia as I shuttered my optics again.

"Sweetspark, do not go into recharge. I need you awake. Whiteblade and I need to speak with you." Redwing's voice was faint through the pounding growing in my helm.

_Why can I not rest?_ It was all I wanted to do, not a lot. The pain and pressure rising in my helm was increasing, and the groan that escaped me was said feeling personified. Oh, sleep…all I wanted… _just sleep_…

* * *

The blood red femme watched in horror and shock as her adopted child's optics flickered and went dark. No, it could _not_ be happening…it should not be happening…

_Whiteblade!_ Her fear-filled telepathic voice echoed. She was speaking louder than necessary. _I need you._

_What is troubling you?_ The former saboteur and assassin responded quickly, sensing his sparkmate's concern.

_It is Nightwish. She has worsened._

There was no response. Then, the door to the medium-sized berthroom hissed open. The pure white mech stood there. He entered the room silently, optics narrow and blazing as he took in the unconscious femme. "What happened?"

Redwing looked up, optics wide. "She was speaking with me, yet was not able to stay online." She looked down at her daughter. "I fear there is something she is not telling us."

The white assassin placed an icy servo just beneath his sparkmate's wings, rubbing in soothing circles. "When is the last time she fully recharged?"

"I have not seen her doing so. Do you think this has something to do with the backlash attacks she informed us about earlier?"

Whiteblade snarled, optics flashing. "Quite possibly." He turned away suddenly, heading to the door. "She will stay here until we are certain she is recovered. I will contact Dieryash."

"What about school?" Redwing's thoughts could not help but stray to the little mech Whiteblade had told her about…the one that he had come so close to terminating.

The mech's large white, red, and black wings flared, but he did not face her. "School will wait. Learning will not interfere in my daughter's health."

"Whiteblade, her colleagues will be concerned. Should we tell the school—?"

"Enough." The assassin was dangerously close, fangs bared. "You are stronger than this, Redwing. Do not let such inconsequential emotions override your logical thinking. Nightwish will stay here, Dieryash will check on her, and she _will_ recover." The rumbling growl that tore from deep within Whiteblade's chassis and vocalizer immediately halted any retort that Redwing had. He was not in a good mood, and was not to be bothered at the moment. "This conversation is over." With that, the ghostly mech vanished.

* * *

Bumblebee paced the walkway, doorwings twitching in agitation. He had gone against his word; he _had_ to see Nightwish again. He couldn't help it. She was a good friend and understood him, despite her seemingly fragmented processor.

But where was she? Normally she was one of the first to arrive, even though she waited on no one.

The tall, lean figure of a white, red, and green mech appeared in his peripheral vision. "Wheeljack!" Bumblebee ran towards the other, spark pounding. Maybe he knew where she was…

"What is it?" the white mech growled. He seemed to be in a bad mood, but it also could have been his insanity speaking.

"Have you seen Nightwish? She was supposed to meet me here, but—"

"No, I haven't. Why should I care?" Wheeljack's blue optics were dark, flecked with hints of blue and gold. Bumblebee tilted his helm in confusion. Wheeljack's optics were normally a softer shade of blue, but even when he was in a mood that was worse for the wear they were not as dark as they were currently.

"I didn't say you had to care; I was only asking you a question." The yellow mech crossed his servos. "What is with you? Why don't you like her?"

"Who said I didn't like her?" The mech's wings flared, doorwings that were larger and more intricate than the ones Bumblebee possessed. Wheeljack was not from Praxus, but it was known that he was more of a Seeker than he was a Praxian.

"Don't mess with me, Wheeljack. It's obvious." Sudden irritation rose in the smaller mech. "Come on. You know you can tell me."

Wheeljack snarled, optics flashing. "Leave me alone." The manic light hidden in those dark depths burned brighter than usual, making the Praxian hesitate. Something was wrong with his friend.

"Wheeljack, please. Why do you not like Nightwish?"

"I said, _leave me_ _alone!"_ The white mech lashed out, servo latching onto the smaller one's with an iron grip as he shoved him away, hard enough to knock him to the ground. Wheeljack glared down at the Praxian, the faintest traces of red beginning to seep into his optics. With a vicious growl, the insane inventor turned and stalked away.

Bumblebee sat there, stunned. What had he done wrong? All he had wanted was a simple explanation. The cool metal beneath him seeped into his inner workings, making him shiver as coolant tears threatened to spill.

"Bee?"

He turned and looked up to see Smokescreen and Prowl. They looked even taller from where he was sitting, making him unintentionally pull away.

"Hey, 'Bee, it is alright." Smokescreen knelt down next to the younger Praxian. "What happened? Did someone mess with you?"

Bumblebee shook his helm. "No, I…" He stopped, suddenly frightful of what Wheeljack would do if he told the two protective Praxians what had happened.

"You can tell me, 'Bee. Was it Megatronus?" Smokescreen's optics flared brightly, turning white in their annoyance.

"No." Bumblebee shook his head. For once, he thought. Orion's brother messed with him all of the time, intimidating him into not telling his sibling unless he wanted serious pain inflicted upon him.

With a deep, semi-relaxing vent, Bumblebee hurriedly spoke. "I was waiting for Nightwish like I normally do, but she didn't show up when she was supposed to. I was worried, because she is normally one of the first to arrive here even though she doesn't wait, and then I saw Wheeljack. I thought he might know, so I went to ask him. He told me no and asked why he should care, and in return I asked why he didn't like Nightwish, and he responded by saying what made it look like he didn't—"

"Wait." Smokescreen raised a servo. "Are you telling me that _Wheeljack_ did this to you?"

With a hesitant nod, Bumblebee confirmed the white, red, and blue mech's suspicions.

A growl tore from the older Praxian's engine. He turned to look at Prowl, who was taking in the scene with his normal emotionless stare. Their optics met, and Smokescreen nodded. Prowl turned and vanished, no doubt heading to find the scientist to reprimand him of his actions.

"What is he doing?" Bumblebee asked, doorwings twitching. "If Wheeljack finds out—"

_"Enough!"_ With a sudden jerk, Bumblebee was wrenched to his pedes, steadied roughly by the other as he rocked precariously.

"Wheeljack will do _nothing!"_ Smokescreen hissed. "Not while I am around! Do you understand me?"

The yellow mech nodded, startled at the other's sudden anger.

Smokescreen vented, noticing his friend's sudden shock. "Sorry. All I'm saying is, Wheeljack shouldn't have done this. I'm going to talk to him later on." A warm, calming servo was placed just beneath Bumblebee's doorwings, rubbing soothing circles. "It is okay, 'Bee. Wheeljack didn't mean it; he probably hasn't been to psychotherapy for a while." The bell rung, echoing throughout the area. Smokescreen scowled. "Scrap. Come with me; I'll get you a pass."

* * *

The knock on the door startled Redwing awake. Silently and carefully slipping out of the recharging Whiteblade's icy servos, the crimson femme headed to answer it.

A tall mech stood there. His narrow optics were glowing, mismatched colors—one was white, the other red. Deep, black lacerations covered his lean frame, only making the enormous mech even more frightening.

"Dieryash. We are glad you could make it," Redwing murmured. "Whiteblade is with Nightwish, in her room. Follow me." They made their way through the cold dim corridor.

Whiteblade was now online, standing over his child, an aura of fierce protectiveness radiating around him. His massive wings twitched as he sensed them, and his helm turned ever so slightly. His ruby optics blazed like the incinerators in the Pits, filled with animalistic rage, agony, and terror.

It was one of the only times he would _ever _show his worry.

"Whiteblade, Dieryash is here " Redwing knew her partner was not in his right processor currently, and she only stated the obvious to keep the enraged mech at bay.

"I can see that, Red." The assassin turned fully, armor glowing.

Dieryash approached the unconscious Nightwish, seemingly unperturbed by the dark power his companion possessed. Dieryash tilted his helm, optics flickering. "She has grown since I last saw her. What is the problem?"

Redwing's wings flared, her worry displayed for all. "She arrived late from school, weak and exhausted, and informed us that she had two backlash episodes, all in the time before her fourth class. We had been worried, a result of her tardiness. We had a small conversation, and she returned to her berthroom."

Dieryash nodded, optics narrow as he ran a scan over Nightwish. "Describe her symptoms when you spoke to her in her room."

"She was not able to form voiced words, only thoughts projected through telepathy. She was abnormally cold and my heat barely warmed her. When she spoke, she did so as if in immense pain." Blood red optics flicked down to the dark purple femme. "I... _we _are worried."

Dieryash rumbled, his thin, swift servos checking for external injuries. Finding none, he faced the anxious caretakers. "You should be. She has worsened since I last saw her."

"What is the problem?" Whiteblade growled, never one for sugarcoating.

Dieryash's mismatched optics blazed. "You want the bad news?" His strange gaze flicked between the sparkmates. "Very well. She is dying. Her internal functions are rapidly shutting down."

Redwing gasped, rearing back as if struck. Whiteblade snarled, armor flaring.

"She is...dying?"

Dieryash snarled quietly. "I did not stutter. Unless her mental instability is stabilized, her processor will fall apart. She will be nothing but an empty shell."

"What can we do to fix it?" Redwing demanded, unnatural heat radiating from her.

"Counseling and companionship -preferably with those her age- will be the better of the solutions."

"Absolutely not!" Whiteblade growled, towering in his livid state as he approached the medic.

Dieryash, however, was not perturbed by the assassin's mood. "Believe me, if there was another way, I would not hesitate to inform you. But unless you want your daughter to die, you _will _follow my directions."

With that, the medic vanished.

* * *

**Hope you liked! Many thanks to _smokiesgirl _for reviewing! Ideas, PM or review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay, Chapter 7! No more Nightwish/Redwing/Whiteblade for a while, courtesy of murdercrowther bringing my attention back to canon characters. **

**Note: Wheeljack is a Seeker/Praxian hybrid in this AU; I failed to mention it before. His doorwings are larger than a normal Praxian's and are sleeker, but not as large as a Vocian's. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The room was loud.

Oh so tremendously loud... _overwhelmingly_ loud. His audios screamed their pain, the ringing echoing throughout his helm; his optics were shuttered tight. His digits dug into his clenched servos, the razor points slashing the protoform and armor, creating deep lacerations. It was too loud, just make it stop...

"Prowl?"

Intricate doorwings flared, and he forced his optics open. The world was hazy, swimming before his optics, but he could make out the faint outline of a white mech staring intently at him with a warm servo against his own.

Forcing his vents to even, he responded. _Yes?_

"Turn your audios down and readjust your optical sensors," the mech hissed. "Blocking out the world like that isn't good for your health."

Prowl scowled but did as told. The world refocused and his specially trained optics focused on a concerned white, blue, and red Praxian observing him with bright blue optics. _Detailed analyses are performed better when the world is shut out. My audios are not used to such recalibrations._

"Sure." Smokescreen rolled his optics, the faintest hint of a frown gracing his mouthplates. "You know you are not to be doing that. Carrier will kill you if she finds out."

_She will not. Such a statement is illogical. One would not permanently terminate their creation. _The elder Praxian stared intently at his brother; any other mech would have moved away in discomfort from the piercing, emotionless glare, but Smokescreen was used to it by now.

Smokescreen growled, narrowing his optics as his vents flared. _"Enough_ with the logic." He ran a servo over his faceplate as if exhausted by his brother's methods. "We are supposed to be paying attention." He motioned to the teacher at the head of the room. "If you even know what that means. You know how Blackstone is."

_Blackstone is a fool who cares only about vanity and self-preservation by any means necessary, _the elder Praxian murmured, optics half-shuttered as he stared at the large black and grey mech who was addressing the class.

Smokescreen snickered, doorwings rising and falling. "Couldn't agree with you more, bro."

"Couldn't agree with _what_, might I ask?"

Blackstone was glaring at them. His servos were crossed over his massive chassis, armor flared from his frame in irritation.

Smokescreen's optics narrowed, blazing white; he was still in a mood that was worse for the wear: the result of the fight with Nightwish, right before she had disappeared. Come to think about it...where was she? Not that he cared...

"Nothing, sir." The white Praxian forced his tone to be smooth, calm, and reasonable, even throwing in his noble accent for the extra flair. "I was merely discussing a private matter with my companion here." He motioned suavely to the black and gold Praxian sitting silent and motionless in the seat next to him.

"Need I remind you, this is _my_ classroom." Blackstone shut off his internal projector, turning to approach the two. "When I am speaking, you are silent. You do _not_ speak; have I not addressed how rude it is to do so? Unless there is something you wish to share with the class, then I suggest you learn to keep that mouth of yours shut."

Smokescreen snarled softly, armor flaring. Yet he restrained his irritation somehow and smiled; if one looked close enough the bitter, acidic undertone could be seen. "My apologies, sir. It won't happen again." Doorwings set in a neutral position, the young Praxian noble stared long and hard enough at Blackstone to make him look away in slight discomfort.

_You were always one for making people uncomfortable, _Prowl murmured, optics flickering and darting over to his younger brother.

"What can I say?" Smokescreen leaned back in his seat, a smug grin appearing on his handsome faceplate. "I'm just that good."

* * *

His digits restlessly tapped the refined metal beneath him; his optics were shuttered and ventilations harsh and ragged. He mustn't lose control...no, it was _not _an option. He had been reckless, harming the little 'Bee; now the two Praxians would be suspicious and mainly outraged that someone would dare hurt their youngest friend.

The slightest chuckle escaped him. Yes...hurting the little yellow would be bad, oh so _bad._ The entire group would be after him...no one would be able to do anything. No one was smart enough...except the Praxian brothers. The emotionless, mute one and the clever, irritating player. They would catch him...no, _he _would catch _them, _and then he would corner them, breathe in their scent...oh, warm Energon...

He was jarred from his daydream as the bell rang loudly. Scowling and adjusting his audio receptors, the hybrid lingered in the room, cold gaze piercing any mech or femme bold enough to meet his optics.

"Wheeljack."

He turned. His current course instructor stood there, corrective visor dimmed in visible concern.

A snarl threatened to rise, and he hurriedly bit it back. Now was _not _the time. "Yes?"

"Is something bothering you?" The slightly taller femme approached. "You have been standing there for quite some time."

Wheeljack's engine growled, and he shook his helm, covering the noise with a slight cough. "Everything is fine. I...was merely lost in my thoughts." She looked ready to interject, but the hybrid mech continued before she could. "If you'll excuse me, I must be getting home."

With that, he turned and left.

As he stepped out of the school, however, he collided with a huge solid frame.

A mech with black, purple, and white armor stared down at him, crimson optics burning. A vicious grin covered his faceplate, and his extremely tall and massive frame filled the hybrid's path. Next to him stood a gray, purple, and red mech, one with an expression that flickered from insane to furious to unnervingly calm. Despite the varying color schemes, both mechs possessed the same exterior build -tall, powerful frames with enormous wings and refined armor- and it was clear that they were related.

Wheeljack hissed lowly, optics narrowing and refocusing abruptly from the sudden large image that was out of proportion with the surrounding environment. Wings flaring, he took a few steps back in order for his strained and ravenous systems to readjust. Unfortunately, the mechs before him took it as a sign of weakness.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?" The black mech crooned, long white dentia bared in a sickeningly sweet grin.

Wheeljack said nothing in response, pressing his lip plates together. _No point in talking to a pair of fools..._

"Ooh, ooh, brother! Perhaps ve should give him a lesson? Show him to vatch vhere he is going?" the other demanded, optics flickering wildly as his clawed digits flexed. "I am sure he vould like zat; yes he vould!"

His brother vented, rolling his optics. "Now, Blitzwing, it is not _nice _to aggravate others. Right, Wheeljack?" Bright red optics fixed dangerously on the hybrid.

"I wouldn't know; you sure are one to talk." He put his servos on his hips, shifting his weight and narrowing his own icy blue-white optics.

The larger mech's grin darkened. "Come now; there's no need to be rude. We're all on the same side, are we not?" The mech stepped even closer, vents hot and flaring. His brother laughed maniacally, moving with his brother to invade the smaller mech's personal space.

Wheeljack bit back a growl, instead allowing his engine to rumble. "Are we?" He grinned, crossing his servos. "'Cause I don't see a reason for you to be speaking to me right now." The grin suddenly morphed into a severely irritated scowl, showing his drastically changing mood.

"Brother, I think ve made ze hybrid angry." Blitzwing shifted, and in the blink of an optic shutter he had Wheeljack pinned to the wall nearest to them. Deep red optics burned, carving their way into the resistant mech. "I think ve should teach him a lesson about _respect."_

The black mech snarled, optics flashing. "I agree, brother. This little mech needs punishment. He wouldn't want his _secret_ to go out on full display, now, would he?" The huge mech approached them, menace clear in his heavy yet silent pedesteps.

Wheeljack shuddered, armor shifting and vents flaring as the scent of the two increased. "You wouldn't do that if you knew what was good for you, but you obviously don't know what is." The primal urge rose deep within him, clawing its way up his throat. No, no, no. Not now, _not now_.

Blitzwing snarled as his grip tightened, large claws digging into the hybrid's neck cabling. Wheeljack manually stalled his vents, but he could still _taste_ them. His engine rumbled, the noise reverberating through them and the vacant grounds. Oh, these two were _so _unsuspecting...just wait for the right moment...

"Ze little hybrid does nothing, brother," Blitzwing hissed, insanity replaced with icy calm. He fixed his dark ruby optics on his relative. "Perhaps he could use a little more persuading?"

"Yes, brother." The black mech ran his glossa over his long dentia, the grin becoming more sadistic by the nanosecond. "More persuading is _exactly_ what little Wheeljack needs." But before he could even attempt to strike, a booming voice stopped him.

"Octane! Blitzwing!"

The brothers turned, optics narrowed in irritation. Orion, Prowl, and Smokescreen were making their way towards them, Orion in the lead. The hybrid vented, not in the mood to deal with them right now.

Octane snarled quietly, optics darkening for only the slightest of moments as his excitement vanished. Then he turned and plastered a grin on his faceplate, spreading his servos out wide.

"Orion! It is so good to see you! Isn't that right, Blitzwing?"

The gray mech shifted, blocking the group's easiest method of reaching the hybrid. "Yes, Orion. Ve are very pleased to see you here."

Orion crossed his massive servos. "Blitzwing. Release him."

The gray mech rumbled, crimson optics flickering. But before he could speak, his brother cut in.

"Ah...I don't think so. You see," Octane murmured in a threatening tone as he moved closer to the red and blue mech, "Wheeljack has a little favor to do for us. And he gets something out of it as well." Crimson gaze narrowing, the enormous mech scowled. "So, he does not need your assistance. Now would be the right time to walk away."

Orion's optics narrowed and he seemed to want to punch Octane in the face rather than leave, but then one of his comrades intervened.

Smokescreen stepped forward as he sensed the darkening mood, his doorwings twitching. "Now, now, gentlemechs. We don't want to start anything, now, do we?" His gaze momentarily flicked over to Wheeljack, blazing with a hidden threat. _Move and I will not hesitate to let these buffoons harm you._

Octane's optics flickered as he caught the brief look, yet he seemingly ignored it despite the acidic smirk on his faceplate. He looked down at the white Praxian, all traces of anger vanishing. "I agree." He spoke in a cold, calm voice, the faintest hint of maliciousness staining it. "Why should we be fighting? Blitzwing and I were merely having a conversation with our comrade Wheeljack."

The hybrid snarled, optics blazing as he tried to dislodge Blitzwing's servo. "Watch your tone, Octane. I wouldn't go as far as to say we're 'comrades'."

The black mech tilted his helm. "Really now?" His voice was significantly deeper than normal. "Do not forget our deal." His grin morphed into an unnerving scowl as his optics narrowed to dangerous slits.

Those five words alone were enough to make Wheeljack snap. Baring his dentia, the hybrid lashed out at Blitzwing in a kick, the tip of his pede managing to catch the gray mech in the optic. Hissing in pain, Blitzwing reared back, servo flying up to cradle his cracked optic. Wheeljack broke free and landed on his pedes, armor flared as he readied himself for any incoming attack.

Octane snarled, wings flaring. "Blitzwing, you fool! Do not let him fight back!"

Blitzwing straightened, pure unadulterated insanity in his gaze. His optic was uncovered, exposing the gruesome gash and making his face all the more terrifying with the dark, silvery Energon pouring from the wound and dripping into his mouth, staining his dentia as he bared them in a grin as sadistic as his brother's. "No, ve vill not let him escape, brother! No escape for you!" Cackling like a madmech, the gray mech lunged at the hybrid, his deep and rumbling laughter echoing eerily. "Come out and play, little mech! Ve vill not hurt you!"

Wheeljack said nothing, optics narrowing and changing to a darker shade of blue than was normal. He merely watched the enormous mech come at him, and then in a flash lashed out with a kick, sweeping his legs out from beneath him and pinning him to the ground. Kneeling low over Blitzwing the hybrid growled, dentia bared and dark optics clouded with insanity as red began to seep into his glare. Claws tightened around his prey's throat, and creaking was heard as the metal casing was slowly crushed. Blitzwing gasped, futilely attempting to cycle air through his frame. His optics flickered wildly, becoming darker each time as his processor began to slow from halted Energon flow. His movements were weaker each time, and eventually they became slight twitches.

"Wheeljack!" Orion's bright blue optics widened. "Stop! You're killing him!"

Wheeljack snarled, optics blazing with more insanity than usual. Orion moved forward in several long strides, placing a large servo on the hybrid's and pulling him off of the struggling mech.

Octane bared his dentia, glaring down at his brother as he sucked in air through his respiratory systems. "Oh, such a disgrace, Blitzwing. You cannot defend yourself against a pathetic hybrid? I thought there was more potential in you."

_"'Pathetic hybrid'?"_ Wheeljack hissed, breaking free from Orion and lunging at the black mech.

Octane laughed coldly, dodging each attack. "Now, now, Wheeljack. Do not lose control." Moving in a blur, the large mech had the smaller in a deadly headlock. Everyone tensed. With just a twist of his servos, Octane could rip off the hybrid's helm.

Of course, he would not do that...hopefully.

Hissing, the black mech leaned close. "We do not want your secret to be known, do we?"

Wheeljack's optics were slits as he struggled in the iron grasp, claws tearing deep slashes into Octane's armor. The larger mech was not perturbed in the slightest and let the Energon flow freely, his grin becoming more disturbing by the second.

Something slammed into the mech, making him stumble. Prowl stood there, optics narrow and blazing as he stared unblinkingly at the black mech. Octane snarled, his grip on the hybrid faltering ever so slightly. Wheeljack took the opportunity and slammed his pede back, straight into the mech's crotch. He howled in pain, dropping to his knees and snarling in irritation. The others relaxed with the threat seemingly at bay for the moment. Blitzwing helped his brother to his pedes and they left, crimson glares blazing dangerously bright in the dim light.

When Wheeljack snarled and made to go for the retreating Octane again, Orion held him back, his strength easily overpowering the smaller mech.

"Wheeljack, enough is enough. The fight is over. Calm down."

The hybrid's vents sputtered audibly, and the mech cringed, shuttering his optics against the hunger gnawing at his throat; the groan that escaped him was involuntary. Orion looked down at him in slight concern while the Praxian brothers seemed suspicious.

"Wheeljack, are you okay?" Orion questioned softly, optics losing the severe harshness they had possessed in his brief moment of authority.

Wheeljack groaned again, processor swimming with so much _Energon _surrounding him. No, they mustn't become suspicious. Stall, must _stall..._

"Let...go of...me..." The hybrid panted, core temperature rising enough for Pax to feel it.

"You won't go after them?" Orion stared intensely at the other.

Wheeljack vented hoarsely. "I'm not really...able to do so...at the moment..." He hissed softly as the larger mech released him, optics flickering as his armor settled back over his frame. He leaned against the nearest wall, optics offlining as he dulled his olfactory vents. Too much, too _much..._

"Orion, you may leave now." Smokescreen spoke, his voice an eerily calm murmur as he approached the red and blue mech, his brother trailing him. "Wheeljack, Prowl, and I need to speak about something."

"Are you certain that is wise?" Orion's gaze flicked back down to the panting white mech. "He seems to be in a condition that is worse for the wear."

"Oh, I am sure." Smokescreen's optics narrowed as his voice lowered an octave. "This is something we do not want spread across the school as mere gossip."

Orion's optics narrowed. "What makes you think that I would tell?"

The white Praxian's mouthplates curled into a sneer. "Your _brother _would somehow find out, and then it would spread faster than possible. Confidentiality is something we Praxians favor."

A massive engine growled and powerful servos crossed over a large chest. "A little respect wouldn't hurt. What is it about my brother and I that you don't like? What have we ever done to you?"

Mouth pulling back into a vicious snarl, Smokescreen glared up at the other with blazing, nearly blinding white optics. "I do not have to explain myself to you."

Orion made to retort, but suddenly Prowl was in between them. Taller than his younger brother and only slightly shorter than Orion, Prowl somehow gave the impression of being larger than both mechs.

_Enough of this. There is no logical reasoning in fighting over such an inconsequential matter. Orion Pax, _he murmured, looking up to the red and blue mech. _Wheeljack has done something that has perturbed both my brother and I. We wish to speak with him in private. _Orion began to interrupt, but the wide and menacing flare of large doorwings stopped him. _This is not open for negotiation. It is a personal matter, so if you would kindly vacate yourself from the area? _With that, the Praxian turned and worked on calming his brother, and watched out of the corner of his optic as the dumbfounded Orion left on silent pedes.

Smokescreen and Prowl turned to Wheeljack.

"What?" the mech demanded harshly, frame trembling even as his vents were stalling.

"Why do you think we are here, Wheeljack?" Smokescreen demanded, crossing his servos as he moved closer to the other.

The hybrid snarled quietly, forcing his optics to online once more. "Bumblebee."

_Precisely. _Prowl moved forward, steps silent and movements cloaked. _We are not pleased with how you treated him._

Wheeljack huffed out a laugh. "I can imagine..you aren't..." Tremors increasing in brutality, the mech groaned as stabbing pain tore through his tanks. Oh, why did the Praxians smell so _good?_

Prowl narrowed his optics, catching the slight change in the mech's demeanor. Blocking his telepathy from the trembling hybrid, he addressed his brother. _Smokescreen, be careful. Something is not right about Wheeljack at the moment._

_You mean when he hurt Bumblebee or when he nearly killed Blitzwing? _Smokescreen hissed back, optics locking onto the white frame before them.

_I am not referring to those incidents, Smokescreen; you should be wise enough to know that I am not. _Prowl's optics darted back to Wheeljack. _There is something...off, about him, dare I say it. He radiates hunger and sadistic intention. Perhaps it would be best to not confront him at this current moment._

_Are you backing out on me, Prowl? This is what we wanted: we have him cornered, we can make him **pay! **_Smokescreen scoffed aloud, crossing his servos as a scowl appeared on his faceplate. _Are you becoming too cowardly, brother? Must I abandon you?_

_**Enough!** _Prowl snarled audibly, doorwings raised and armor flared. _We will leave Wheeljack alone until he is recovered, and **then **we will make him apologize. Right now, he is in no condition to take another assault. Clearly the incident with Octane and Blitzwing left him weaker than we first believed._

_Prowl... _Smokescreen's optics were dangerous slits.

_I said enough, Smokescreen. We will leave him be, and should I find out that you went behind my back and confronted this mentally fragmented mech, **I **will be the one you are dealing with. _

Smokescreen glared as his brother disappeared into the shadows. His optics flicked back over to Wheeljack, who was watching him, his optics a blue so dark they were nearly black. The hybrid's vents were audibly rasping and sounded as if they were choking themselves.

"Well?" Wheeljack panted heavily, struggling to force himself to stand upright completely. "Aren't you going to...take your revenge?"

Smokescreen scowled, mouthplates pressing together. In one swift movement, he pinned the mech to the wall again, ignoring the warning hiss that erupted from the other. "If you even think about hurting Bumblebee again, I swear upon the Allspark that you will not make it out alive should I find out about it. Are we clear?"

Wheeljack stared at him with blazing yet unreadable optics. "Crystal."

"Good." Smokescreen turned and followed his brother home.

Wheeljack sat on the refined metal ground with his back against the cool metal of the school, his frame swaying. With a ragged gasp, he brought his trembling servos to his mouth. With a quiet snarl, long fangs were exposed and sunk into his hand, slashing through the Energon lines. A low whine escaped his vocalizer as he drank and the hot fluid filled his tanks, and he licked the evidence from his claws. Mouthplates curling into a grin, he stood even as the gaping wound quickly healed.

_Oh, little Smokescreen...you are next._

* * *

**Whoo! I think this is the longest chapter in the entire story! **

**Note: Wheeljack, in this AU, is a Seeker/Praxian hybrid, hence the term "hybrid" being used to describe him.**

**A/N: I have a strange, slightly insane obsession with vampire Transformers. I hope the ending scene was not too disturbing, although it was meant to be. :)**

**A/N 2: I know Octane was slightly out of character. I used him from G1, and I have only seen a few episodes with him in it, although I have read his profile on repeatedly. I also implied that he and Blitzwing are brothers, and this may only be because they are my two favorite Decepticon triple changers. Blitzwing doesn't have "different personalites", per se, he is just really bipolar.**

**Hope you enjoyed! R&R, pleaze! **


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8! **

**I have really taken a liking to writing longer chapters. Seven was 3,880. I will attempt to make my chapters from here on out 2,000 or more words. No promises, though, it is an _attempt._ **

**Well, enough about the word count. Read and review, and I hope that you enjoy this as much as I did! :)**

* * *

Megatronus started awake as the hard slam of a door signaled his brother's arrival. He vented and stood, rolling his neck and wincing as tendons and joints cracked into place. Orion had most likely been out with his group of so-called _friends;_ it was not all that hard to tell that not all- pardon, _most-_ of them were not fond of his younger brother.

Heavy pedesteps sounded, and the creaking of a loose floor panel let the silver mech know Orion had entered. He smirked and crossed his servos, expecting the red and blue mech to be rambling on about the strange Praxian brothers or some new invention that the irritating hybrid had come up with.

What he did not expect was the venomous scowl that marred Orion's faceplate as he stormed into the room.

"Orion?"

The mech paid him no heed, instead grumbling beneath his ventilations and sorting through the massive collection of datapads that were stacked haphazardly in his corner of the living area. Finally picking one worthy of his current attention, Orion threw himself down into the nearest chair, swinging his pedes up onto the table and knocking over an unsuspecting canister of Energon.

Megatronus scowled, approaching his brother and avoiding the puddle seeping into the floor with the nagging sensation that _he_ was the one who going to be cleaning it up later. "Listen to me. You may be in a bad mood, but that does _not_ mean you have to wreck the place because of it."

Orion did not even glance up.

The silver mech growled deep in his chassis and, in one quick movement, strode across the room and snatched the datapad from his brother's servos.

That, of course, caught his attention.

"The _frag,_ Megatronus!" Orion glared up at him. "Why do you keep messing with me? Can't a mech read in peace?"

Megatronus snarled at him, optics narrowing and _daring_ him to continue. "I would not have had to mess with you if you had listened to me and responded in the first place!" He leaned close, voice decreasing in volume but increasing in severity. "Care to tell me what is going on with you?"

Orion leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression appearing on his faceplate. "As a matter of fact," he began in a soft and monotone voice, "No, I_ don't_." His optics focused and sharpened dangerously, pinning his brother beneath his cold glare. "Now give me back my datapad."

"Or what?" Dark optics narrowed in challenge, refined armor flaring from a powerful frame.

The red and blue mech vented harshly in growing irritation. "Slag it, Megatronus, give it _back!"_

A cold laugh sounded from the other. "Make me."

With a snarl from Orion's engine, he lunged, fueled by pure and unadulterated fury. Megatronus shook his helm and threw the datapad to the side, dodging the punches and kicks that were performed with an efficiency that did not bother the slightly larger mech in the slightest. By his movements, Megatronus could clearly tell the mech was more exhausted than he let on. Finally tiring with the antics of his brother, with a powerful backhand Megatronus sent Orion sprawling. Moving forward with dark and silent strides Megatronus had the younger pinned to the wall with massive claws secured around his throat.

Deep blue optics burning, the silver mech leaned close and growled. "Now, I will ask of you one more time: _What is going on_?"

Orion's chassis heaved as he glared at his brother, rage simmering in his stance and in his narrowed cerulean gaze. "Get off of me and maybe I will tell you."

Megatronus grinned coldly, exposing his abnormally sharp dentia. "Why? So you can go back to sulking while you read in the dark? Not a chance." He shifted, pressing his weight even more into the mech restrained to the wall. _"Now spill."_

Orion vented, shifting beneath the massive servo restraining him. "Fine. You want answers?" A deep vent left the mech, and he shuttered his optics for a brief moment. "It's something going on at school."

Dark optics narrowed even further. "Is someone messing with you? Do I need to intervene?"

Bright blue optics widened momentarily. "What? No, Megatronus, _no._ No one is messing with me; they would be a complete and total _idiot_ if they wanted to get on your bad side." He shook his helm as his armor settled over his frame. "Something is wrong with my friends. All of them. There's something they're not telling me..." He cut off as Megatronus began to laugh, the deep and rumbling noise reverberating through his chassis.

"What? What's so funny?" Orion would have crossed his servos had his freedom of movement not been restrained.

"Ah, Orion Pax." The silver mech abruptly released him, making Orion yelp in surprise as he collided with the floor with a harsh _clang._ "That is what currently has you in such a foul mood? Honestly, if this is what bothered you so much, you should have told me long ago."

Orion stood with the unmistakable creak of joints straightening. "And why is that, brother?"

"I have the perfect solution." Motioning with a gleaming silver servo, Megatronus pointed to the seat his brother had occupied. When Orion looked at him as if he had lost all of his perfectly sane reasoning (one that was doubted to begin with), the silver mech growled and bared his dentia, suddenly looming over him. "Sit. _Now."_

"Fine." The red and blue mech vented in exasperation as he threw himself back into the chair, making it lurch and groan beneath his weight. "Happy?"

"Very." Megatronus perched himself on the servorest of the chair across from him. "Now, listen closely, because I am not going to repeat myself." He leaned close, optics flashing.

"You need to _get a life_."

Orion stared, processor stalling for a short moment in his shock. "Excuse me?"

Megatronus stood unexpectedly, massive frame seeming to fill the room. "By the _pit,_ Orion." He vented, beginning to pace. "You can be such a Primus-forsaken fool sometimes." His cold gaze pierced the mech sitting before him. "Your friends have kept you in the dark constantly. They are not even your _real_ friends; what would make you believe so?"

Orion narrowed his optics. "I don't have to take this slag, Megatronus. I have half a processor to get up and walk out of this room, so you had better explain _quickly."_

The large silver mech grinned. "At least have the good will to hear what I have to say." When his younger brother began to rise from his seat, a large and powerful servo forced him back down. Megatronus shook his helm and chuckled darkly, optics flashing red for the briefest of moments. "You are going _nowhere, _Orion."

The red and black mech scowled ferociously. "Then explain yourself. You can't just go around accusing my friends -who are innocent of whatever crimes you think they've done- of something they didn't do."

Megatronus shook his helm. "Your friends are not innocent; _no one_ is innocent." He paused, dark optics dimming slightly, before he continued."Nightwish the least of all. She is associated with wanted criminals."

"Who are her _parents,"_ Orion growled. "Honestly, Megatronus, she is a orphan. The area she lives in could care less about her association with two criminals. What if they just wanted a child?"

"What sane being would willingly give a newborn over to two world-known assassins?" Megatronus crossed his servos.

"You know what? It really isn't any of our business. Nightwish is wary enough. If we go digging around in her past, she _will_ find out one way or the other."

The silver mech chuckled darkly. "I do not fear her, and neither should you."

Orion let out a deep and harsh vent. "What would make you believe that?"

"Yeah, well she doesn't care for anyone, especially the likes of you!" the elder mech snarled.

Blazing blue optics locked onto the darker ones. "What did you say?"

Megatronus curled his mouthplates back into a scowl. "You heard me." At his brother's shocked and furious expression, the silver mech's eyes darkened, so much they gave the impression of being black, before flashing a dark crimson. "You actually believed you stood a chance with her? She is mentally unstable and overpowering. She wants authority." With a deep scowl carved into his faceplate, the looming silver mech leaned closer. "She wants power. And you, my dear Orion" -a claw stabbed into the flared armor over the raging red and blue mech's chest- "have that power. She will not hesitate to use you to achieve such goals."

Orion growled, baring his dentia as he stood, intentionally shoving the larger mech away. "I have had enough of this slag!" He stormed towards the door, pedesteps thundering as he threw open the door.

"And where do you think you are doing?" Megatronus demanded.

Orion flared his armor in an aggressive manner. "Out, and away from you! Since you obviously have nothing better to do than insult my friends, then my leave will clearly make you feel better!"

With that, the enraged mech stormed out.

... ... ...

Orion stormed down the vacant sidewalk, deep in his fury-filled thoughts. How _dare_ Megatronus say such things! Who did he think he was?

_Calm, Orion. Calm down. Anger is good for nothing._

_Tell that to my fists, you harebrained glitch!_

Attempting to find some sort of reasoning that would clear his thoughts, the red and blue mech was still and silent until an idea hit him.

... ... ...

He slowed to a stop in front of the elaborate and very large metal mansion. It loomed over him, making him feel smaller than normal. Transforming and letting out a deep exvent, he climbed the massive staircase and knocked twice on the door.

The door hissed open, and a black and white mech stood there. "May I help you?" His voice was deep and cultured.

"My name is Orion Pax, brother to Megatronus and a good friend of Smokescreen's and Prowl's. Are they here?"

The butler pursed his mouthplates. "No."

Orion shifted. "Pardon me for sounding rude, but are you certain? They told me they were going to be -"

"No, they are not here. Now please leave." The butler crossed his servos and narrowed his optics.

"Carvonier?" A deep and static-laced voice sounded behind the black and white mech. He turned, allowing Orion to obtain a clear view.

Smokescreen stood there, his normally bright blue optics dim and flickering as he slowly made his way down the stairwell. "Who are you talking to?"

"Master Smokescreen." Carvonier bowed with a flourish, moving to help the exhausted Praxian make his way down the stairs and stopping only when he was waved off.

"Enough of that. Who is here?" the Praxian noble demanded wearily.

"A young mech by the name of Orion Pax." Orion did not miss the stiffening of the mech's doorwings or the angry flare of his optics. Yet the butler continued on. "Shall I let him in, sir?"

Smokescreen let out a deep exvent. "Why not, Carvonier?" With a minute flick of his wings the blue and white mech nodded. "You may leave now."

"Yes, sir." Carvonier opened the door to let the towering red and blue mech enter and then vanished from sight.

Smokescreen faced the waiting mech, his mouthplates curled into a polite yet extremely disturbing grin. "Follow me, why don't you?" Without waiting for an answer, the noble turned and stalked silently down the polished hall.

* * *

Smokescreen moved with an unusual haste, struggling to keep his emotions in check. His doorwings twitched irregularly as he flew through the hall, not bothering to see if Orion was fast enough to catch up with him. What was that weak-willed idiot doing _here,_ in _his_ home? He _dared _to think that he could just waltz in here like he owned the place?

"Smokescreen." A rumbling voice sounded close behind him.

"Yes?" He could not help but snarl, flaring his armor minutely.

"Is there a reason you are currently displeased with me?"

The Praxian froze, jaw components clenched so hard his dentia creaked. Silence screamed as he forced his irritation down, knowing that Prowl would terminate him if he started an "inconsequential dispute" with a guest in their own residence. When he spoke, his voice was cold, hard, and clipped. "I do not have to explain myself to you."

Realizing the other mech's mood was rapidly darkening, Orion tried for a different approach. "I am not intending to sound rude, Smokescreen. It is an honest question, and I know that if I attempt to figure out the answer and inform you that you will no doubt rebuke whatever I say."

Smokescreen snarled quietly, intakes stalling momentarily as he forcefully dampened his rising fury. "Then figure out a way to explain why I am currently irritated with you that will _not_ offend me." Glancing over his shoulder panel, the noble's cold glare pierced the taller mech. "If that is possible for you."

Orion did not respond, instead taking in the other's appearance. Even though he was currently wide awake, Smokescreen's optics were still extremely dark and it was not a result of his bad mood. His movements were slow and sluggish, and exhaustion and the slightest hint of pain was evident in his voice. He could not help but voice his thoughts.

"Are you unwell, Smokescreen?"

The Praxian growled. _"Enough_ with the questions!" Turning abruptly, he entered a code into the keypad of the nearest door and glared at Orion as it hissed open. Orion hesitated, enough to make the noble even more irritated. "Are you going to move or _must I force you?"_

Thankfully taking the hint, the red and blue mech stepped into the room, one that turned out to be a large library filled from floor to ceiling with datapads. Currently seated in one of the custom-made armchairs -or near it, actually- was Prowl. His legs were crossed and his optics were shuttered, and he did not seem to realize they were there.

"Prowl, we have a visitor," Smokescreen murmured as he approached his brother and kneeled by his side. The elder Praxian said nothing, instead motioning to two other armchairs nearby with a flick of his doorwing.

"Sit," the white Praxian hissed at the waiting red and blue mech. Orion narrowed his optics but did as told, thinking it best to not question the obviously irritated mech.

Prowl unshuttered his optics and stretched his doorwings, rising from his seat on the floor with a silent grace. Moving over to the nearest shelf, he scanned its contents briefly before choosing a datapad and onlining it, rifling through its subject. All was silent until the black and gold Praxian turned his icy gaze on to Orion.

_Explain to us why you are here, _Prowl murmured. _We have important matters to attend to. Make it quick._

Orion shifted minutely in his seat. "I have come to settle whatever unpleasant feelings I have displayed towards you."

The elder Praxian remained emotionless as his wings fanned the air and his armor shifted silently. _Explain to us why you believe you have upset us in some way.__  
_

"Well..." The massive mech actually seemed... _uncomfortable_ in the midst of the allegedly dispassionate mech. "Smokescreen's feelings towards me have been rather...unnerving as of present, since Nightwish's spell those few orns ago."_  
_

Prowl's gaze fixed on his relative. _Smokescreen. What do you have to say to this?_

The younger Praxian narrowed his gaze. "I have nothing to say, and I never will."

The other shook his helm and motioned for his brother to speak with him in a private corner of the room, not sparing Orion even the slightest of glances. _  
_

_You need to keep your emotions in check, Smokescreen. _Prowl looked down at his brother, his emotionless visage breaking only enough to show his displeasure.

"Everyone cannot be as impassive as you, brother," the younger one hissed back. "I do not have to be nice to this glitch."

The elder's optics darkened. _I did not say you had to be nice. Do not assume my intentions and do not interrupt me. We have a guest, and like all normal protocols we will be courteous. _

The white and blue Praxian scowled, but eventually nodded. "Fine. But we will make this quick." He let out a deep and hoarse vent. "I am exhausted, and I do not want to spend my time having a conversation with a pampered glitch."

_There is no reason for you to be saying that. We are most likely more spoiled than Orion._

"I really am not in the mood for this right now." Smokescreen spoke in a low and rushed voice. "Can we please get this over with?"

Eyeing his brother with a hint of suspicion, the elder Praxian led them back to the waiting armchairs and mech.

"Is everything alright?" Orion questioned as he watched Smokescreen lower himself into his chair with a grimace.

_It would be best not to question him any further, Orion Pax, _Prowl murmured. He sat on the servorest of his chair, dipping his doorwings down, the large and intricate panels touching the material. _You believe we are currently displeased with you. Explain._

"I am not so sure about _why _you two are irritated with me. I have done nothing," Orion stated, crossing his servos as his previous anxiety disappeared. "I would like _you _to explain what I have done to anger you."

_"'Anger us'?"_ Smokescreen straightened in his chair, armor flaring and optics blazing as much as either of them had ever seen them. "What have you done to _**anger** us?" _Before Prowl could stop his younger sibling, realizing what he was about to do, Smokescreen had shot from his chair and latched onto Orion's servo, forcing him out of the chair and pinning him to the wall with a rather startling and unrelenting strength.

"Smokescreen, what are you doing?" Orion demanded, narrowing his optics at the slightly smaller mech. He had had enough of being pinned and thrown around like a rag doll. "Let me _go."_

"Not a chance, you pompous glitch," the white mech snarled. His wings flared wide in an intimidating and aggressive manner. "You want to know why _**I**_ treat you the way I do? Prowl has _absolutely nothing _to do with this, so don't you dare try to rope him in!" The noble bared his dentia in a vicious snarl as the restrained mech looked to the elder Praxian. "Now you listen and do so very closely, for I will not repeat myself! I spent my entire _life _living in the shadows of politicians and dictators and nobles with more popularity than I have. My entire life is full of neglect and disappointment! 'Oh, Smokescreen, you are too young to do this and you are too young to do that'. The only one who cares even the slightest bit about me is Prowl, and with his condition it only makes it a matter of time before I am forced to live up to the idiotic pitspawn I have to call _parents!" _Smokescreen paused to draw in a deep vent, his optics flickering and vents rasping. Nearby, Prowl sensed the action and narrowed his optics, his black and refined armor shifting.

"I have spent my entire childhood trying to please those who think I am a useless mistake! And _you..." _The Praxian shook his helm, grating his dentia together. "You just waltz in out of nowhere with that pitspawn of a brother and practically take over the entire school! You earn respect and authority, things I doubt I will _ever _be granted, with no trouble at all!" Smokescreen recoiled suddenly, leaning heavily against the nearest chair as his frame rattled. With a hiss, he glared up at the stunned mech. "That is why I hate you." He silenced Orion with a wave of his servo. "Silence! I do not want to hear a word!" His armor flared and rattled, and faint tremors racked his lean frame. "Now get out of my sight."

Orion glanced at Prowl, who gave the slightest of nods as he pointed to the door, where Carvonier was waiting.

Prowl watched as the mech was led out of their home before looking down at his brother. _You did not take your medications._

Smokescreen shook his helm weakly. "I was going to, but then that idiot showed up here." His optics flickered as he collapsed against his brother, venting heavily.

The elder Praxian said nothing as he opened a compartment on his foreservo and took out a syringe and a small bottle. With quick and calm movements he filled the syringe and injected it into his younger brother. Smokescreen groaned, shuttering his optics as the medication surged through and overwhelmed his weakened systems.

_Come. You must recharge. _Prowl led him out of the room.

The lights dimmed behind them as they left.

* * *

**There! Hope you liked! Wheeljack will be next, and perhaps more Orion and Megatronus. I will add Blitzwing and Octane, if you like. **

**Bye! :)**


End file.
